Merry, you may be.

For I am the flesh in your tounge.

Create to yourself, images of these

glass-eyed figures,

and expose to me, your skin -

whorish as ever.

They speak to me, your pores, your veins,

in a rush of melancholy.

In a stream of misantrophy.



Remove the carpet, so I may be

united with the shades of these.



Blind

my eyes,

still I will see - presence, visuality.

I grant you

my pale hands,

still I will feel - shape, contoures.



Please leave.

In me you wont find any pity,

as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes -

the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me.

So, please leave.

In here you wont find any pity.

Tour kisses were as hell itself.



Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge.

Only I can wear

vast costumes of time, and still be

present.

"So, hereby I rape thee."